Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
by gopadfoot
Summary: Mary Watson, loving wife, mother and friend, AGRA assassin, liar, and betrayer. Who is the real Mary? When Mary is shot, she experiences flashbacks to points in her life that shaped the woman she became. A short character study of a life filled with contradictions.


**A/N:** Thank you to Ariane DeVere for her excellent transcript of The Six Thatchers, which was very helpful in writing this piece.

* * *

They say that your whole life passes in front of your eyes before you die. Mary didn't think that quite true. Some images of her past did flash through her mind as she was bleeding out. Some of them seemed meaningful, some seemed trivial. All of them were important, as they were all part of the weaving in the tapestry that was her life.

 _Crash! went the china plates, one after the other. Poor Mama was cowering in the corner, trying to avoid becoming the victim of Papa's drunken rage. When Papa had finally subsided and fell onto the couch in a drunken stupor, Mama quietly swept the floor. Then she went over to Papa and gently bandage his hand where he had cut himself. Mary comes into the living room, hesitantly. "Why did Papa do that, Mama? Why was he so angry?" Her mother sighs, and then tries to smile. "He didn't mean to, sunshine. He must have been very tired and upset. Everything's fine. It's gonna be okay, Rosamund."_

"Everything's fine. It's gonna be okay." That was Sherlock's voice. She is starting to feel woozy, and the pain is distracting. It is hard to keep her thoughts clear.

 _She is riding her bike, flying down the hill, hair flying into her eyes. She should have tied her hair back, she thinks. She takes her left hand off the handlebar to flick her hair back, and lose control. She is flying down, down, down, and nothing can stop her descent. She crashes. Darkness envelops her. The last thing she hears is someone (it must have been Daisy, who was riding right alongside her) say, "It's all right, it's all right."_

"It's all right, it's all right," Sherlock's voice soothes. She needs to do something... say something... leave her final imprint on the path she has walked until now, and is now forever leaving. Another image pops into her mind, distracting her.

 _The nursery rhyme is recited, as always, with exasperated fondness. Rosamund Mary Stanton is quite a stubborn little girl, or pig-headed, as Papa calls her. She has a need to make her own way in the world, and doesn't always see eye-to-eye with the adults in her life. More accurately, she tends to do exactly the opposite of whatever is expected of her. She hears Mama's melodious voice:_

 _Mary, Mary, quite contrary,_

 _How does your garden grow?_

 _With silver bells, and cockle shells,_

 _And pretty maids all in a row_

"Mary!" John's voice sounds frantic. She pulls herself out of her reverie. "John!" she calls to him.

He looks down at her. "Mary? Mary?" _Quite contrary,_ she hears Mama's voice again.

"Stay with me," he begs. "Stay with me."

"Oh, come on," she responds, incredulous. Doesn't he see that she's on her way out? She won't be staying, not this time.

 _"Stay with me. Stay with me, Lisa," Ben begged her. It was the most serious relationship she had had before she met John. In her line of work, long-term relationships were not a luxury she could afford. Ben had been a selfish indulgence that she had thoroughly enjoyed but now regretted. "I'm sorry, Ben, it's over between us." She told him she was moving to New Zealand and that he should never contact her again. She then quietly left for her new mission in Venezuela, assuming yet another identity. She still finds herself worrying about Ben, hoping he is rebuilding his life after she had so wantonly destroyed it._

"No, don't worry. Don't worry," John urges her. _Of course she worries. There is Mama, lying on the hospital bed, so frail, so helpless. They tell her she is dying of breast cancer. Mary thinks she's dying because she has no fight left in her. She is so, so angry at Mama, who just lies down and takes the beatings, both literally and figuratively. Mama, who thinks she deserves it. Mama, who never fights back. There, at the deathbed, Mary makes a vow. She will fight. She will be the one on the top, the winner. Never will she lie down and let anything destroy her. She turns her eyes to the doctor at the bedside. "Is there anything else you can do for my mother?"_

"Oh, come on, doctor, you can do better than that," she finds herself saying.

"Come on, Mary." There's John again. She's losing focus. "Mary, come on."

 _She is surrounded by her family. Her brothers. She hardly recognizes the ruthless mercenary she has become. She has come a long way from the young teenager who watched her mother die and sought to protect herself from the same fate. She had gone to college, enlisted in the Navy, and then worked for the CIA. Her tendency to step all over others on her way to the top had finally gotten too much for even her employers. Her inclination to lie and manipulate hadn't helped matters. Her discharge from the CIA didn't mean she would need to change her line of work, however. She had several friends in similar situations, and she gathered them together to form their own group. Going by the moniker of A.G.R.A., they were employed to do work that no agency could officially endorse. Their reputation spread, through discreet channels of course, and life was good. Mary had found a purpose and a family. Until everything went to hell in a hand basket._

 _"What now? What do we do now?" Ajay asks her, desparately._

 _She has only two words of advice. "We die."_

"God, John, I think this is it," she tells him. This time, there is no way out.

"No, no, no," he protests. "It's not."

 _They were a rather unconventional family, but as close-knot as they come. Ajay, Gabriel, and Alex were her brothers and best friends. Most importantly, they were fiercely loyal to each other. The memory sticks they made were more of an encouragement to trust than blackmail material. It was an insurance that set their minds at ease and removed even the minutest of doubts. But they were aware that each of them was prepared to sacrifice their own life rather than betray the others. They had their issues, like every family does, but underneath it all they cared about each other. Despite her unusual lifestyle, she was happy._

"You made me so happy," she tells John. Since she lost everything, he was the first one to bring her happiness. "You gave me everything I could ever want," she continues, as John tries to shush her.

 _She never wanted a child. She was a selfish creature, with psychopathic tendencies. She was not so far gone, however, to want to inflict herself on a child. John, yes, she wanted him. Needed him. When she had lost her makeshift family, she had lost interest in her previous way of life. The stakes were too high. She was not afraid of death, only of loneliness. She was left utterly bereft and alone, and sometimes wished she had died along with them. John was so refreshing. Innocent enough to be taken in by her nurse persona, yet somehow attracted to her dangerous and devious personality. Best of all, he really, really, needed her. She could handle a boyfriend. But a child? Could she really handle looking after a child?_

"Look after Rosie," she begs the child's father, as he tries to shush her again. "Promise me."

"I promise," he says, anguish twisting his features.

"No," she sobs.

 _She couldn't believe she was pregnant. She hadn't expected this, and definitely hadn't expected this. Yet here was Sherlock, rattling off his deductions, and they made sense. Too much sense. Sherlock had made a vow to protect all three of them. In her heart now she made her own private vow to her unborn child, unexpected but not completely unwanted. "I promise you, little one, I will protect you. You are so innocent, you have no clue what dangers await you in this big bad world. I'll watch over you, I promise. I promise."_

"Yes, I promise," her husband repeats.

" _Promise_ me," she repeats, tearfully.

"I promise. I promise."

She looks up at the consulting detective. "Hey, Sherlock," she says weakly. "I... so like you. Did I ever say?"

 _She had liked him even before she had met him. Anyone who could inspire such devotion from John had to be a remarkable person. She believed all the stories she heard about him. Who knew as well as her about truth and fiction and which one was stranger at times. She was somewhat glad to find out he was alive, but more than a bit worried too. She would need to increase her vigilance to keep her past from being exposed. She was doing quite well, in her own analysis. Oh, if only Magnussen was as the great Consulting Detective. She had him thoroughly fooled._

"Yes. Yes, y-you did," he responds, and she blinks. Her hold on reality has loosened, and her mind has wandered once more. She collects herself with an effort. She has one last chance to make amends. Perhaps that would make Sherlock more amenable to her advice once her DVD's would start arriving...

"I'm sorry... for shooting you that time. I'm really sorry."

 _"I'm really sorry, Mr. Magnussen, but your time is up." She handled her weapon confidently. The man kneeling in front of her was no less deserving of death than any of her other victims._

 _"Are you sure, Mrs. Watson?" he answered mockingly. "What makes you think you'll be any safer? You think you are the only one who can send messages posthumously?"_

 _She hesitates for a moment, gun still trained at his head. Then she hears the sound of someone approaching and her heart sinks._

 _She likes Sherlock. She didn't lie about that. But Sherlock is more akin to a beloved pet than family. Pets can be sacrificed, but family needs to be sacrificed for. John is her only family, and she will selfishly do whatever it takes not to lose him. Think quickly, Mary, she urges herself. (Funny how she thinks of herself by that name now, even in her mind.) She really doesn't want to kill Sherlock, she is pretty fond of him after all. And his death will be thoroughly investigated, she is sure. He is Scotland Yard's only consulting detective, and that brother of his is too nosy for his own good. So, surgery it will be. Incapacitate, stall for time, then get to him before anyone and threaten him. She shoots, and she hopes he will be alright._

"It's- it's all right," Sherlock reassures her.

"I think we're even now, okay?"

 _He was coming to get even with her, for a betrayal she had never committed. Her innocence didn't matter, only what he believed to be the truth of it. Once again, her family was in danger because of her. She now had John, Sherlock, and her newborn daughter to protect. Sherlock had shot Magnussen for her, and had subjected himself to a possible death sentence because of her. She was no fool. She knew his mission would probably end with death, unless his brother could find or contrive an urgent government case that would warrant his return. Even Mycroft Holmes had his limits, and the man himself knew it, as evidenced by his devastated demeanor (which he had tried to hide, poorly, she thought.) They were not so different, Mycroft and herself. Both used to holding life and death in their hands, lying and manipulating to get their way, yet fiercely caring and ready to sacrifice for those they held dear. Sherlock, by his actions, had earned himself a place on that list. How ironic that Ajay himself was still on that very same list, despite their opposing intentions. Perhaps she could still change his mind, and everything would be okay._

"Okay," Sherlock says agreeably. She screams as the pain overwhelms her.

"Mary. Mary." John is calling to her urgently.

"I think we're even. Definitely ev...even," she says with effort, and turns to her husband.

"You... " she sobs. "You were my whole world."

 _(But I wasn't yours. I betrayed you when I hid my past, I betrayed you when I shot you best friend. You still loved me, but never trusted me the same way.) It was her own fault, she knew, but it still hurt. She had ignored his suspicious behavior at first, but sneaked a peek at his phone when it continued. The texting was mostly light banter, with flirting undertones. She wouldn't have tagged it as betrayal if it wasn't for the fact that he tried to conceal it. That, more than anything, told her about his emotional involvement. She still believed him to be a good man, an honourable man, but still a man. His attraction to adrenaline was his pressure point. She was afraid life with her was boring him, and he subconsciously used her betrayals as an excuse to answer his own. She hoped one day to get him back completely._

"Being Mary Watson... was the only life worth living."

"Mary," he repeats yet again, agitated with his helplessness.

 _"I always liked Mary," she told him. It was Mary, of the Quite Contrary fame, had managed, against many odds, to forge a new life. She had found a new family to love. She had married the man she loved and become a mother. Her life was one of happiness and bliss, when there weren't those nagging little reminders of a darker past._

 _She had hoped her past would be buried together with Magnussen. Then it was Ajay who came after her. She had thought she would escape to keep her family safe, but she had underestimated them. She had made her choices in life, and was ready to face Samarra when the time came. She was not ready to sacrifice her family on its altar. Now the threat came from a new direction, and she knew not from where the next one would come. She was a an animal of prey in the jungle, and she never knew from which direction the next predator would pounce. She would rather die than risk losing her family again, especially if her death was closely looming in either case._

"Thank you," she whispers to both her husband and her friend.

 _(Thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for staying here to watch over Rosie. She will be safe now that I am out of the picture. Isn't it ironic that I, the selfish assassin with sociopathic tendencies, have given my life to save another's? But then, that's me, Mary Quite Contrary. I do everything contrary to what you expect me to.)_


End file.
